


If you say to me tomorrow

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-04
Updated: 2007-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is their world, with all of its sharp edges and dark shadows and nightmares come true. Coda to "What Is and What Should Never Be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you say to me tomorrow

Sam insists on driving, making that face he does so well and blocking the driver's side door until Dean gives up and hands over the keys. He spends the entire day guzzling coffee and yawning while Dean stares out the window and watches the sun creep across the sky. Shadows fall in sharp, dark lines and traffic rises and falls with the end of the business day. Through every window of every car they pass there's another face, another man in a suit or woman in a sweater, children belted in back seats and dogs drooling at smudged glass, silent shells of metal carrying silent faces over the curve of the earth.

Dean is acutely aware of Sam next to him, slouched in the seat and driving with one hand like he always does, a position so familiar and easy it's like he was born to it. Dean glances and looks away, glances and looks away; he knows that Sam knows he's doing it. There are a few times when Sam lifts his chin, opens his mouth like he's going to speak, but each time he changes his mind and keeps driving without a word.

After one more half-stifled yawn, Sam finally gives up and pulls off I-70, following a Wal-Mart truck down a long exit ramp. Dean doesn't say anything as Sam scouts the littered strip of motels and gas stations, doesn't offer his opinion on which place looks like it won't ask too many questions. The beat-down edges of another prairie town, another neon-lit motel and another potholed asphalt parking lot, another couple of hustled twenties handed over the counter because it's too soon to risk credit cards, and they're dragging their feet across the weed-cracked sidewalk toward room 7A.

Sam rattles the key in the lock, shoves the door open and tosses his bag aside, and collapses on the nearest bed with a relieved sigh.

Shutting the door behind him, Dean sets his duffel down beside Sam's and reaches for the light switch. At the foot of the bed he nudges Sam's foot with his knee. "Hungry?"

"Tired," Sam replies, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah, I noticed. C'mon." Dean bumps Sam's foot again, suddenly restless. "You can sleep later, lazy ass."

Sam turns over and glares at Dean, and his hair falls messily over his eyes. "Dean, I spent all night looking for your sorry ass and all day driving. I'm tired, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever, let's just--"

Dean stops, the rest of the sentence caught in his throat, and his mind scrambles to catch up. All night looking. He knew that already, of course. No other explanation. But he's had all day to think about it, all day to wonder, and he hasn't bothered to ask how Sam found him. How many times he called before he realized Dean wasn't picking up. How he found the right place in fifty square miles of run-down grain elevators and abandoned buildings. How he was there, in the right place and at the right time, when Dean woke up with the bitter taste of blood on his tongue.

"You didn't say -- how'd you know where to find me?"

"I told you," Sam says slowly. "I was looking all night. You didn't exactly give me an address, dumbass. Next time--" He speaks through another yawn and rolls onto his side. The comforter on the bed is brown and orange, a real ugly thing, and Sam's white shirt is wrinkled and too bright, hard to look at in the harsh fluorescent lights. "Next time pick me up before you go spelunking in creepy old buildings, okay?"

"How'd you get there?"

Sam closes his eyes and scrunches his face in annoyance. "How do you think I got there? I stole a car."

Dean stares at him for a second, then starts laughing; it sounds strained and a little crazy even to his own ears. "Of course you did."

"Uh, yeah, of course I did. We're just lucky no cops..." Sam opens his eyes again and looks up at Dean. "Dean? Are you okay?"

Twelve and a half. That's how old Sam was when he stole his first car. Didn't know what the hell he was doing, told Dean later it took him fifteen minutes to hotwire it but he figured it out eventually, took it for a spin around town because he was pissed at Dad and Dean for going off on a hunt and leaving him home alone and bored out of his skull for the weekend. Dad never found out about it, but Sam told Dean a few weeks later, a whispered confession in their shared bedroom, speaking low and fast with mingled pride and annoyance when Dean tried to give him tips for the next time.

The image slides into Dean's mind before he can stop it, a picture of midnight blues and grays, Sam's silhouette against the light through the window and the dark shades of all of their memories.

Dean shakes himself. "I'm going to get dinner," he says.

He doesn't realize his hand is resting on Sam's shoe until Sam moves his foot. Dean glances down, stares for a moment at Sam's leg on stripes of orange and brown, looks up again when Sam pushes himself up on one elbow. "Dean."

"You sure you don't -- I'll get you something anyway, you need to--"

"_Dean_. Stop it." Sam sits up fully, one leg bent before him and the other over the edge of the bed. "Don't do this."

"Stop what?" Dean snaps. It's strange, he thinks, really fucking weird, how he can look the same but look completely different. The Sam before him and the Sam the djinn created, blurring out of focus like two reels of film overlain but not aligned, a vivid picture of warmth and color and a pale, uncertain ghost. Dean shakes himself and says, "I'm not doing anything, Sam. I'm just--"

"Come here." Sam's voice is quiet but insistent.

Dean almost turns away. He almost turns to leave, count the paces to the door and step into the cool, exhaust-scented night. He almost ignores Sam, heads out to wander under the roar of the interstate and find a bar, find a smoky room where the music is too loud and even the brightest neon cowers in shadows. But Sam is looking up at him, eyes wide and jaw set, the lines of his face so clear Dean's fingers itch to touch him. There's a pang in his chest, like he's tugged by an invisible string he doesn't have the energy to fight.

He goes to Sam and stops with his knees pressed against the side of the bed, closes his eyes when Sam rests a hand on his hip.

"Dean," Sam says, "you're freaking me out. I don't know what it was like--"

His fingers slip under Dean's t-shirt and brush over his skin, and Dean shifts awkwardly. "Don't. Sam, just... don't."

Sam grabs Dean's wrist and doesn't let go. "Why not?"

"Because this isn't -- c'mon."

"Isn't what?"

But he doesn't twist his arm free when Sam pulls him closer, doesn't try to fight it when Sam pulls him down. He doesn't need to open his eyes; he can feel Sam beside him, smell his skin and the coffee on his breath, so near the rest of the room fades from his senses. He sits on the edge of the bed but Sam closes the distance between them, sliding easily across the comforter until his chest is flush against Dean's back, his leg pressed alongside Dean's and one arm snaking around Dean's waist.

"Isn't what, Dean?" he says again. His breath is soft on Dean's neck, his fingers warm against Dean's skin.

"Nothing," Dean mutters, and he leans back instinctively, settling into the comfort of Sam's body. "Nothing. It's just..."

"Yeah. I get it." All at once the warmth is gone from his voice, and Sam slides away so quickly that Dean falls back before he can catch himself. "It's not the way it was in your little fantasy wish land."

"It's not -- what?" Dean twists around to look at Sam, bewildered and certain that he's missing something important. "What are you -- of course not. I told you, it was -- it was different."

"Better."

He doesn't want to go through this again, doesn't want Sam's questions and looks and cold, bitter tone. Dean stands up and takes two steps toward the door, ignoring the way the brown and orange around him swims unsteadily when he moves.

"Yes," he says shortly. "Mom was alive. Jess was alive. Dad -- Dad died in his sleep. We were happy. You were happy. That's better."

Sam is on his feet in a flash. "No, Dean." He grabs Dean's shoulder and spins him around. "I wasn't _happy_, because I wasn't fucking _there_. I was sitting in that goddamned motel room waiting for you to call while you ran off to chase some fucking _djinn_ god knows where, and you--" Sam shoves Dean back, hard, and grabs his t-shirt before he overbalances, and it finally sinks in that Sam is really kind of angry with him. "You could have _died_, Dean. That thing strung you up like a goddamned side of meat so it could bleed you and drain you. You could have died and I would be -- how the hell is that better? How is you being dead any fucking _better_, Dean?"

Stunned, Dean starts to answer, but Sam doesn't give him a chance. He releases Dean's shirt and slides one hand up his chest, over the crest of his shoulder and along his jaw, and he pulls Dean close.

"Did you even think--" Sam presses his forehead to Dean's, his hand a warm curve around the back of Dean's neck. "Damn it."

"Sammy, I didn't--" Sam is too close, too much light and shadow filling Dean's vision.

Sam cuts him off with a kiss. It's hard and angry, their teeth knock and Dean gasps in surprise, but Sam doesn't let him pull away. He drags his teeth over Dean's lower lip, chasing away whatever Dean is planning to say, works his tongue into Dean's mouth and angles his head and this is really fucking unfair. Totally cheating for him to hold Dean's head with one hand, his thumb brushing softly along Dean's neck, but _god_, okay, maybe Sam's argument-winning tactics are completely unfair, but Dean's not exactly going to call him on it when his hand is clumsily shoving Dean's jacket off his shoulders and his leg is sliding alongside Dean's, and when they pause to breathe, eyes closed and panting quietly, Sam doesn't stop. He kisses Dean again, no less insistent, no less hungry, on the corner of Dean's mouth and line of his jaw, brushing across his closed eyelids and tracing a line down his neck.

"Sam..." Dean shakes his arms free of his jacket and reaches up, grabs the collar of Sam's shirt and isn't sure if he wants to hold him close or push him away. "Sam, I didn't--"

Sam kisses him on the mouth again, stealing his words with spine-melting intensity, and Dean settles for fumbling with the buttons of Sam's shirt. He undoes the top few, slips his hand under the fabric and lets his fingers absorb Sam's warmth. When they part again, gasping, Dean ducks his head and presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of Sam's neck, the curve of his shoulder, the top of his chest, lingering on the taste of Sam's skin.

Sam mumbles something Dean can't understand, words Dean isn't sure he wants to hear. Sam's hand brushes over his hair, and he rests his cheek against the side of Dean's head, the gesture gentle and strangely affectionate, and Dean is immediately tense. Unable to breathe and unable to move, this is too much, too close and too soft, but Sam isn't letting him go and he forces himself to relax.

"Sam," he begins. He kisses Sam's neck again, feels the way the tendons tighten and hears Sam's pleased exhale. "I didn't..."

"It's okay," Sam murmurs. Dean can feel Sam's mouth moving against his hair, the motion of his jaw hard and a little uncomfortable in contrast to the slow stroking of his hand, but Sam doesn't move away.

"Listen to me, Sammy," Dean says, and he tries to speak louder but doesn't open his eyes. "I didn't stay."

Sam's hand stills and Dean feels him hold his breath for a moment.

"I didn't stay," Dean repeats. It's all he can manage, three words he needs to be a world of apology, but they sound weak and empty. "I never -- I wasn't. I'm just so..."

So fucking tired, but he can't say it aloud. So tired of worrying about you, so tired of waiting to be caught. So tired of running from demons and cops and monsters and memories, so tired of waking up every morning afraid you'll be gone again, afraid that I failed, afraid that he got you, afraid that I won't be able to stop him. So tired of wondering if every night is going to be the night we die.

"Yeah," Sam whispers. "I get it."

Dean opens his eyes and leans back. Part of him is surprised to find that the room is still there. Patterns of orange and brown wrapped around them like a really bad joke, sickly fluorescent light and striped wallpaper, and Sam's dark eyes and warm skin and white shirt are the only things that feel real.

Sam is studying him carefully, and Dean feels a flutter of panic, a flash of certainty that Sam really _does_ get it and he's going to say so, he's going to drag it into the light and lay it open like a fresh wound. Because this is Sam and that's what Sam does, never letting well enough alone even when Dean is barely hanging on by his fingernails, so close to crumbling it's all he can do to keep from turning on his heels and running from the motel room and escaping the weight of Sam's understanding.

But Sam only says, "Come on, Dean."

He moves away, brushing his thumb over the curve of Dean's ear before withdrawing his hand, and sits down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes.

"We're both beat," Sam adds after a brief silence. "Let's get some sleep."

It's like something else is controlling Dean's motions when he follows Sam's example, turns off the light and sits down, unties his boots and tosses them aside and decides not to bother undressing the rest of the way. He lies down beside Sam, flat on his back on top of the covers even though he knows he'll be cold enough to need the blankets in an hour or so. Sam curls close to his side, rests his chin against Dean's shoulder and drapes his arm over Dean's stomach.

And this is the moment where Dean needs to crack a joke, needs to break the silence and ask if Sam has turned into a girl with all this cuddling, but Sam is warm and unyielding, solid muscles and long lines and so completely right where the djinn's dream world had it wrong. He doesn't know if Sam will laugh or turn away, but he does know he can't bear to see Sam flinch at his touch again.

So he says, "You hated me."

"What?" Sam's voice is already slurred with sleep. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. With good reason." And maybe it's a little easier to examine it now, now that the world is familiar again, the bright, blinding colors of his dream faded and Sam's touch is like an anchor, his body a familiar shape in the muted glow from the neon lights outside. "I was an ass, and you hated me."

Sam kisses his shoulder through the fabric of his t-shirt. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think," Sam goes on, and he tightens his embrace across Dean's belly, pulling Dean even closer, "that an army of shrinks would have a field day with the crazy shit your subconscious comes up with under the influence of evil magic."

Dean starts to respond, not even sure how to answer, but something snaps into clarity in his mind and he closes his mouth. It got to him, he can admit that. The carnival of colors and smell of fresh-cut grass, the taste of homemade food and pictures of a million moments that never happened, so bright and convincing and bold it aches to know it wasn't real. It never had been real, never could be, no more than the idle daydreams that occupy his mind on long drives, no more than the casual what-ifs he never lets himself entertain.

If he sleeps now, the world won't change. Hundreds of miles away a girl will wake in a hospital without her father, drained and broken and haunted by nightmares she should never have to know. They never did get her name, but Dean knows that Sam will look it up online and tuck it away in his memory, just in case Dean ever asks. And here, in this shitty motel room beside the highway, this place where people only pause to rest before going somewhere else, Dean will wake into a world that's ugly and cold, blue with grief and gray with fear, veiled in shadows and sharp with pain. But Sam will be draped over the bed and hogging all the covers, drooling on his pillow and making stupid faces in his sleep, and it will be their world.

"I hate genies," Dean mutters.

Sam almost laughs and he doesn't turn away, already half-asleep and barely listening, and Dean decides that's good enough.


End file.
